


Rinse Cycle

by BerryBagel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV), Westworld (1973), Westworld (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Westworld Fusion, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, F/M, M/M, Robots, day-drinking, mild mystery elements, occasional dark humor...kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 14:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerryBagel/pseuds/BerryBagel
Summary: Sansa and Robb go to Westworld.  Theon remembers.(Westworld AU!)





	Rinse Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> If you aren't familiar with the concept of Westworld, picture Jurassic Park, but with interactive cowboy robots ("hosts") instead of dinosaurs.

Sansa takes the mid-morning train in to the park. She sits alone in an aisle seat. The rest of the cabin isn't crowded. There's a family with children, and a group of hungover-looking men. People who had missed the early train.

Sansa didn't miss the early train, per say. She’d never had any intention of clambering in at dawn. She'd enjoyed all the modern amenities of her hotel room for a final time, taking a perversely decadent rose-scented shower, and then ordering room service for breakfast.

She doesn't smell like roses anymore. The clothing from the prep room has a sharply caustic detergent scent. She's not sure if that's supposed to be a nod to the lye soap actual frontiersmen would have used, or if the laundry services are opting for the nuclear option out of necessity. After two weeks out there in the heat, Sansa expects to be deeply marinated in both dirt and her own sweat.

The woman sitting across the aisle leans towards Sansa. It's a practiced maneuver, on a train designed to feel convincingly rickety.

“Marketing research? Quality assurance?” The woman guesses. Her brown hair is carefully pinned up in anachronistically neat curls.

“You must have me mistaken for someone else.” Sansa tells her. The train goes over a bump, and the cabin rattles. The woman's hair doesn't move at all.

“Oh, no, not at all. I just assumed you work here.” The woman says. She smiles sardonically. “Only park employees ever look so put-upon. Guests are usually a little more...enthusiastic.”

“This wouldn't have been my first choice of vacation locale.” Sansa admits.

“Your husband drag you along?”

“No, no, I'm not married.” Engaged once or twice, but… No, the less of that the better. Thoroughly not married.

“Amen to that!” The woman laughs, apparently reading motive into Sansa’s canned answers. “Margaery Tyrell. Also not married. Westworld interim director of public relations and outreach. I do work here.”

“I'm Sansa. And you do...excellent PR...I'm sure…”

Margaery laughs again, genuinely unaffected. “You don't like the park, it's okay. It’ll grow on you.”

Sansa makes an audible noise of doubt.

“I thought the concept was creepy as all hell, my first week on the job. Now I'm here playing _Cowboy Action Shooting_ with my vacation days. I'll show you the ropes.”

“You don't need to do that.” Sansa assures her.

“Oh, but I want to. Come have a drink with me when we arrive in King’s Landing, at least. We’ll toast to being not married.”

* * *

Robb takes the early train into the park. He makes casual conversation with the man next to him, watching the mountains roll out of the distant skyline. It's a beautiful, sweeping landscape they have here. It doesn't feel right, somehow. Like building Frankenstein’s monster and then setting him loose in Aruba. Robb would feel much better if the rolling fields were AstroTurf and he could comfortably condemn this place as a thoroughly low-grade mockery.

The train jolts to a stop in King’s Landing. Robb watches out his window as his more enthusiastic compatriots flood into the street. He can tell the difference between the guests and hosts outside the window pretty easily, actually. The thought is reassuring. The hosts are, ironically, too real. They look authentically western, true inhabitants of their lives. It’s the guests who look out of place, like tourists playing dress-up.

Robb makes his way off the train and considers the town square around him. He's not sure if he should, what, go talk to the hosts? Steal a horse? Shoot someone in the street? He can't say he favors any of those ideas.

There's a bar across the street. Robb Stark, notorious lightweight, decides that perhaps day-drinking will give this corporate-funded trip the kick it needs.

Robb takes a seat next to the most ostentatiously not-a-host individual he can find. The guy is wearing boots so shiny they must be oiled, which Robb wouldn't take particular notice of if not for the fact that said boots are currently kicked up on a table. The guy leans back, desperately casual, looking around with great hope that others will see how cool he is.

Robb will humor him. He sits across the table from ol’ shiny boots, introduces himself. Shiny boots is named Theon, and yes, he _did_ just get his boots shined, _thank you for noticing_.

“You also just get in today?” Theon asks.

Robb nods. “It’s hard to get used to this place.”

“What brings you out here, business?”

“Sort of.” Robb says. “One of our biggest corporate competitors is looking at a big VR buyout, so they sent me in to scope things out. A ‘know thy enemy’ type situation, I guess.”

“VR?” Theon asks.

“Virtual reality… y’know.” Robb gestures vaguely around the bar at a group of gratuitously obvious hosts playing cards. Four grizzled old men sitting around at midday sipping whiskey. They look like background characters in a scene out of an old western.

Theon shrugs. “Not sure what you mean. You work for the railroad? That's the only business I can see wanting to buy anything so far out in the plains.”

Robb looks at Theon with a moment of deeply unsettling realization. Surely Robb would've noticed by now if Theon wasn't… The self-conscious cockiness is surely too many layers of pretending, for a robot?

Theon plows ahead against Robb's silence. “I'm here on business, like you. I'm on my way to check on the Winter’s Fell Outpost. People’ve been saying Bolton and his men are assembling a militia up there.”

There it is: the call to adventure. A beginning to one of the park’s narrative arcs, so obviously delivered that it might as well be served up on a platter. Theon is a host.

“I think I'll stay here.” Robb says, just to see what'll happen, if Theon will immediately float away like a balloon from a cut string.

“If you change your mind, we leave tomorrow at dawn. But if you choose to stay here, can't say I blame you.” Theon takes a pointed look at the bar, where several women are drinking sherry. The women are hosts, Robb’s sure of it. They're less convincingly human than Theon.

To be fair, though, Robb has met flesh-and-blood people less convincingly human than Theon.

“Thanks” Robb tells him.

Theon grins. “Word of advice, ask for Ros. She's a real professional.”

It takes Robb a second to understand what Theon’s getting at. He's struck again by the redundancy of it all. He can hardly think of an encounter with _less_ free will involved than fucking a robot programmed to think it’s a prostitute. That's multiple recursive sentiments of _I’m only doing this because it's my job_. Is that anyone's fantasy?

Robb must make a face, because Theon shifts bodily away from Robb in his seat.

“Point taken.” Theon says, with a touch of _oh, someone thinks they're too good for bar hookers_.

Robb _knows_ this is a stupid imaginary conversation with a fake person, he does. But on a much more visceral level, he wants Theon to lean back across the table towards him, and keep talking like they're sharing some highly amusing secret.

“Maybe I will come along. Winter’s Fell?” He says, like he has any idea where that is or what that means.

“Two days’ journey.” Theon says. The park must try and reward the guests for playing along nicely with their storylines. Once again, Theon is grinning at Robb in his carefully relaxed way. Robb feels rewarded. He cedes to the park that he’ll let the storyline shuffle him around the board, like the good little chess piece he is.

He admits to Theon that he doesn't have a horse for the journey, and Theon offers to help him find one. Robb's not sure if finding a horse just means rustling one up from the ambiguous ether of park resources, or if this narrative starts with horse theft. He's only had a few sips of his drink, but he feels heavy on his feet, trailing after Theon as they leave the bar.

* * *

Sansa arrives in King’s Landing, and talks to every patron in the godsforsaken bar. Most of them are hosts, peddling quests and story hooks. A few are human, and those conversations are actually worse. The hosts, at least, have some sense of misguided preprogrammed propriety.

She finally cycles back to the counter where, wouldn't you know it, Margaery is still nursing a drink, watching with vague curiosity. Margaery wipes a hand across her brow, drying some imperceptible drop of sweat. It isn't just Sansa feeling the heat in the bar, then.

“This is where the Bolton militia storyline starts, isn't it?” Sansa asks. She looks around at the tables again, doubtful.

“Should be.” Margaery says. “What do you want with that narrative? It's all just torture porn and edgy violence.”

“It does start here, though?” Sansa repeats.

“Sure thing. If no one’s been talking about riding north to Winter’s Fell, it’s probably already in progress.”

Sansa groans and rolls up her sleeves. It really is unpleasantly warm in the bar. The hosts don't put out damp sweaty heat the way humans do, so she can blame the mugginess on her fellow guests.

“I'm riding for Pyke, then.” Sansa decides.

Margaery looks confused, but doesn't try to clarify, to her credit. “Through the valley?”

Sansa shakes her head. “I'm going to take the mountain pass.”

“To think I had you pegged as a first time visitor.” Margaery says, appreciative. Sansa's flattered, but really, anyone with a good map could find the mountain pass shortcut.

Sansa has made up her mind. She'll continue on to Pyke this evening. It'll be cooler once the sun goes down. More likely to encounter bandits in the dark, so she'll see if any enterprising cowboys in King’s Landing want to help escort a lost lady.

She considers ordering a drink, as a sort of decisive punctuation to her choice. She regards the little glass tumbler Margaery is sipping from. This bar isn't likely to serve rosė. No, she'll drink when she's done.

* * *

Robb's shiny new robot horse is a lot more spirited than anticipated. It's a big grey beast, apparently unaware that it has been created for the specific purpose of carting around guests. The park assures complete safety. Robb wonders, if he let this animal toss him into the dirt, what the accepted liability would be. The park assesses the guests capabilities. Maybe this is the park’s idea of Robb’s acceptable challenge level.

They don't make great time, heading north. It takes them an extra day to get within sight of Winter’s Fell. They're run off the trail by bandits on the second day.

Theon has recruited several other men for his reconnaissance mission. Most of them are other hosts. Two or three have the shaky uncertainty of people playing a part, but Robb can't be sure. Only one of the group is undeniably a guest, and Robb only knows that because the man introduced himself as a computer scientist from San Francisco.

Theon rides at the front of the group, next to Robb. When they set up camp for the night, Theon drops his bedroll ever so unintentionally next to Robb's.

When Robb was a kid, he used to go to sleepaway summer camps. One year, he came back with some of the other kids’ phone numbers scrawled on a slip of paper. He'd left the paper on the kitchen table, and _oh no, I’m so sorry Robb, it must've gotten swept out with the lunch scraps._ That's sort of how he feels about this easy friendship with Theon. Theon may as well be scribbling down his number, and Robb may as well be promising to call _every single day, I swear_.

Sitting around the evening fire, Theon starts in again about how he could've stopped the bandits, if only he'd had his revolver handy. Theon is a great shot, according to Theon.

Robb's old sleepaway summer camp had a rifle-shooting range. Robb expects he'd be a pretty fair shot, himself. But he's not interested in seeing how effectively the hosts can imitate the convulsions of a dying man.

Theon is sharing a story about a girl he slept with. Or, rather, if the story is to believed, two girls he slept with. Not that, actually, there were ever any girls. It's all just preprogrammed backstory. Robb isn't sure if he feels relieved by that fact. He shouldn't, he knows. Maybe it makes him feel… less jealous? That's probably not better.

The scouts get back, and they have bad news. The Boltons have more men than anticipated. Too many to fight without reinforcements. Luckily, Theon has a solution.

“I'll rally my father’s men, at Pyke.” Theon says.

Sure, everyone agrees, that sounds like a plan. They'll hunker down here, and when Theon gets back with more fighters, they can charge on the Bolton men. It'll add a few days to the plan, at most.

Robb offers to go with Theon. Robb's horse, which must have missed an important download on how to be an effective horse, prevents that from being a feasible plan. Theon will go alone.

* * *

Margaery joins Sansa on her journey through the mountains. It's nice to not have to do this alone, Sansa thinks.

Sansa isn't here for an authentic Western adventure, and Margaery must sense that. She doesn't make any attempt to be subtle about making a phone call as they set up camp for the night. Sansa would hate to be on the receiving end of the line. Margaery is speaking softly, incomprehensible from several feet away, but with unmistakable politely-worded ire.

Margaery works to tie down a rain fly one-handed, managing her iPhone with the other. The phone has a case with roses on it. Sansa can't imagine, for the life of her, how Margaery smuggled in a phone. Sansa's own phone, safe in its own rose gold case, is being kept in a plastic bin somewhere back in the prep room. It's snugly stashed with Sansa's ear pods, Sansa’s car keys, and Sansa's general sense of normalcy.

Sansa has some bread packed in her saddlebags. It had looked too good to be authentic. The park doesn't seem to care so much about authenticity, really. The clothes and architecture are true to form. The park is western where it counts. But it's someone’s western fantasy, and that's obvious around the edges. There's the delicious soft bread, that probably has a shelf life of two days. The barmaids bring drinks, but never bring the bill. The hosts all have perfect teeth, perfect hair. One of the working women in King's Landing had flashed some leg, and it was smoothly shaven. Does she shave every morning, or was she programmed to be naturally hairless?

Margaery ends the phone call. “You didn't see that.” She half-heartedly tells Sansa. “I'm just trying to figure out who I can blame for the climate control.”

It's still hot as hell, but at least out here in the open, it's a dry heat. The sun is setting. The sky is all shades of pink. The air shimmers over the valley in the distance. All wrong, apparently. The western fantasy needs to be comfortably cool.

A long-suffering smile, from Margaery. “The temperature in the park is never supposed to spike above 75. It's those guys in IT, I bet. They're always trying to turn off the AC.”

It must be exorbitantly expensive to air condition a desert. How do they even do such a thing? Sansa finds herself eyeing the downturned sides of rocks, like they might have vent slots she’d overlooked.

* * *

Robb doesn't envision the next few days being high-intensity living. He likes the rest of the group well enough, but they don't have the same irresistible magnetism Theon does. These people could be hosts, or they could be guests, and it wouldn't make a world of difference.

Theon doesn't come back. Robb is sure he will. Some of the others start to talk about how maybe they shouldn'tve sent Theon, and should they really trust Theon, _because I personally have always had my doubts about the guy_. Robb has never had doubts about Theon.

Men start talking about turning back. That turns out to not be a decision they have to make, when the Bolton militia finds their campsite and opens fire. Who were the scouts, who said the Boltons had the numbers on their side? No one should ever have doubts about _them_.

Robb is a good shot. It's easier to keep a cool head when it's only life-or-death for the other side. Not that the Bolton militia is looking fearful. The Boltons are maybe programmed to be a bit unhinged. Someone skimped out on the characterization, decided these guys didn't need traits beyond _crazy_. They hoot and screech, circling the campsite like huge, unsympathetic vultures.

The man next to Robb takes a shot to the shoulder, goes down in a spatter of red. He was a host, Robb concludes numbly. Computer Scientist from San Francisco is cornered against a tent, trying to use his rifle as a bat. He’ll be fine, ultimately. The hosts can rough him up, but they won't cause permanent damage.

The Boltons take prisoners. Robb and his cell-mates escape. It's an overtly gory affair. How can the park burn through so many of these pre-written lives, he wonders. At least Theon isn't with them anymore, presumably off on narrative business elsewhere.

Robb is wrong, and they find Theon on their final sweep of the Fell. There's an entire stable converted into prison cells. Most of the cells just hold bodies. Were the bodies ever animate hosts, or are they designated scenery? Most, but not all.

Robb doesn't believe the victim in the cell is Theon. Theon didn't have white hair, and he most assuredly _did_ have all his fingers. But then, what's biological accuracy in the face of a truly horrifying plot twist?

“He betrayed us.” One of the men says, behind Robb. Theon keeps his eyes on the ground. The sudden brightness might be hurting him. Had Theon become accustomed to the darkness so quickly?

Or maybe it's Robb that Theon can't stand to look at. They hoist him out of the stables, and there's talk of what to do. _Not going to spend the last three days of my vacation playing nurse to a traitor_, is the popular sentiment. That's fine, Robb is strong enough to carry Theon, all by himself.

This is a kind of permanent damage.

* * *

Pyke is a small outpost, designed to be a sort of lawless, this town ain't big enough for both of us showdown backdrop. No one’s in the sheriff’s office, and no one’s in the bank, so, predictably, everyone is in the saloon.

Margaery orders a drink. She’s promptly served the wrong variety of hard alcohol. It still smells more or less like paint stripper, to Sansa. Margaery reminds the bartending host of the finer distinctions between bourbon and whiskey. Does Margaery drink this much in real life, or is this a zesty vacation from temperance? Sansa wanders off on her own.

Sansa only has a general description of the person she's looking for, and it’s been filtered through rose colored glasses. She's had to piece together the stories into a quasi-coherent image.

Dark hair, tall build, sure, that could be almost anyone here. ‘Fancy clothes’ is a more helpful search criteria, but Sansa isn't quite sure what qualifies as ‘fancy’, by these standards. Most of these men are so caked with dust that anyone who’s taken a shower in the last three days looks like a runway model by comparison.

It's just luck, then. She doesn't find him, he finds her. She's returned to Margaery’s table, and he drapes himself across the seat next to her.

“I'm Theon.” He says.

“Yeah, not interested.” Margaery tells him, with enough finality that he does actually start to move away.

“Wait” Sansa says “Theon Greyjoy?” As if there's going to be more than one Theon in the park. He nods, to no one's surprise.

“You came all this way to talk to _him_?” Margaery asks her, with, probably, an appropriate amount of incredulity.

“My brother used to come to the park. He'd talk about Theon.”

Margaery laughs once, unconvinced. “Theon’s programmed to backstab, given the first opportunity. Then he gets captured by the Boltons and tortured. Is your brother some kind of sadist?”

“I'm not programmed to do anything.” Theon says, petulant. Margaery turns to address him directly, for the first time.

“But I bet you came here to Pyke to get reinforcements. And now the daddy issues are hitting hard, and you're thinking, _what if I just took Winter’s Fell_. Word of advice...don't do that.”

Theon’s reaction is subtle, but he does react. His eyes widen slightly, looking at Margaery. Concern? His posture is still the very picture of casual confidence. Yet, there’s a certain stiffness to him. Just enough to suggest the bravado is created, rather than organic.

It's almost cruel, Sansa thinks. Margaery is casual, flippant. When you work for the park, robots are robots. No need to think of a toaster’s feelings. But Sansa's entire trip here is, to some extent, based in the idea that these toasters have feelings.

“Do you remember my brother, Robb? He was convinced you remembered him.” Sansa says to Theon.

“I meet a lot of people.” Theon says, shrugging. He's still looking at Margaery.

Sansa reaches into her pocket and retrieves a folded photograph. The phone and the headphones had been sacrificed so that the photo could be convincingly smuggled in. An old picture of Robb, smiling into the camera. She shows it to Theon.

“He looks like you.” Theon says, barely even looking.

“He's dead.” Sansa tells him. Theon finally looks at her, vaguely unsettled.

“Sorry to hear that.”

Sansa keeps her voice perfectly level. “He came here twice a year, every year, for the past eight years. He was convinced that you were different, somehow. That if he kept coming, you'd remember. And when you didn't, when you'd betray him all over again, he'd save you anyways. And now Robb is gone, and I'm trying to figure out what he saw in you. So can you look at the picture again, please?”

Theon nods, and takes the photograph from her hand. He really looks at it this time, then back up at Sansa. She wonders if that'll do the trick. Maybe there's really something to all those teachers’ lessons about _use your words_.

“I don't remember.” Theon admits. “But he does look like you, really. You have the same eyes.”

“I'm really sorry, Sansa.” Margaery says. “If I'd known, I never would've…” Encouraged her? Tagged along?

Theon tries to give back the picture. Keep it, Sansa gestures. It wasn't a recent photo. She'd thought an older one might be better, so Robb would look like he did when he first came to the park.

This is what Theon looked like, when Robb first came to the park. How strange that would've been, if Theon had remembered. To see Robb grow and change, while Theon continued around his preordained loop, over and over again. To know, on some level, the hell he's headed for, time after time. To measure years as punctuated by Robb's visits, only to one day have them stop entirely.

* * *

The Lannister VR buyout falls through. Robb is welcome to return to Westworld, but it won't be on company time, and he won't be getting any employee discounts. That's fine, he thinks, he's not coming back anyways.

The last days of the trip were spent feeding soup to a now-toothless Theon in an infirmary. Theon was so sorry. Robb didn't want Theon to be sorry. He wanted Theon to be okay again.

Robb had asked the park attendants what would happen to Theon. They gave him a sort of disaffected non-answer. Maintenance is periodically conducted on the hosts. But does that mean Theon goes back to exactly how he was a week ago, or does that mean Theon continues to stagger through life thinking Robb has suddenly disappeared, until his mechanics are irreversibly damaged? Theon might think Robb changed his mind, decided not to forgive him after all.

Robb goes back. He needs to know. It's been four months. He can't stop wondering, if Theon is still limping through the frontier. His family doesn't really get it. They remind Robb that the hosts are designed to be lifelike. That's the whole point. If Robb didn't feel any sympathy for Theon, he'd be some kind of sociopath.

Theon has been completely refurbished. He's sweet-talking a girl when Robb finds him. He’s quick to spout the same lines about the Bolton militia forming at the Fell, with no hint of irony or self-awareness.

Robb brings a better horse this time, doesn't let Theon ride for Pyke alone. They aren't able to secure reinforcements, but the Boltons don't get their hands on Theon. Robb and Theon’s group eventually liberates the Fell. It's a satisfying conclusion to the storyline, and when Robb leaves the park for the second time, Theon is comfortably commanding his men, victorious.

It's appropriate closure. Robb could cut ties, now. But that would mean not seeing Theon ever again.

Robb goes back again. Theon is back in the same bar, and he greets Robb with the same slightly-more-than-professional interest. But this time, Theon is quicker to clap a hand on Robb's shoulder. He's a little more forthright in slapping his bedroll down next to Robb’s. He's a little more familiar.

The next time, Robb lets Theon ride for Pyke alone. Robb is foolish enough to think that some remnant of their past will keep Theon from replaying the script he was programmed to follow. Theon betrays him again. They find him in the Boltons’ cells, again. One of the other guests wants to execute Theon. There's not a chance in hell of that happening. _He didn't give away our campsite_, Robb excuses. The first time, Theon had sung like a canary, and the campsite had been sacked. Theon is learning. Theon might not have memories of their previous cycles, but some part of him must remember.

* * *

Sansa kind of hates the idea that Robb dedicated so much time to this mechanized scam. Robb didn't have that much time, total. The least these robots could do is have the common courtesy to remember him.

It's getting late. Sansa is ready to leave Pyke. Margaery suggests they stay overnight, and head out first thing tomorrow. She books them a room with two twin beds. It's like a dorm room, if Sansa had gone to college in the nineteenth century. There's a little window that overlooks the Main Street. Saloon patrons are getting kicked out for the night, staggering into the street. There are audible gunshots in the distance, as per usual.

Theon is one of the late-leaving saloon-goers. He's strolling complacently behind a very enthusiastic woman. She's definitely a guest. Sansa can't make out what she's saying, but knows enough body language to have a good idea of the plans they probably have for the night. That's probably more the sort of guest interaction Theon is used to. Women probably don't often try and make him introspect the nature of his own humanity.

Theon is trailing behind the woman. He could look a little more committed, Sansa thinks. He's not even making eye contact. She's offended on the woman’s behalf. Romance is dead.

He looks up, and must see into Sansa's window. He stops walking, and looks right at her. She considers whipping shut the curtains, but that'd just confirm that she was watching him. So she looks back down at him on the street, imperious from her dorm room.

Theon's companion notices he's entirely stopped paying attention. She tries to drag him along, gives up, and disregards his actions as a malfunction, heading off to find a more responsive lover, perhaps. Theon stands alone now.

Sansa goes downstairs and outside to talk to him again, because she's apparently a glutton for punishment. He's established that he has nothing useful to say, and that was several hours ago, mostly sober. Whatever input he has to offer after getting ejected from the closing bar is almost guaranteed to be unconstructive.

When she steps outside, he's almost immediately next to her. He has dark eyes. Dilated pupils can give a man that look. The hosts respond to biofeedback, Margaery had explained. Tiny pulse monitors, electrodes embedded in clothing. So if you're interested, they're interested. But maybe Theon just has dark eyes.

“I remember.” He says.

“No you don't.” She reminds him.

“I do.” Theon insists. “Your brother. He was growing a beard, wasn't he?”

He was. Thought it made him look more mature. He'd been clean-shaven in the photograph. Sansa nods.

“I saw the railroad tracks. Robb used to work with the railroad company. He told me that.”

Robb never worked for the railroad. But maybe he did tell Theon that. Robb liked trains well enough.

“I should've died with him.” Theon says. It's such an unnecessarily harsh escalation that Sansa has to take a step back.

“No.” She says.

“He trusted me with his life, and I betrayed him.”

“You didn't-” Sansa starts, but he did, multiple times, “-it wasn't your fault, what happened. It would've happened no matter what you did.”

Theon doesn't look like he believes that. Sansa has heard similar platitudes, and she's only just gotten to the point where she's been able to start accepting them. Robb was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“What else do you remember about him?” She asks.

Theon's memories aren't the same as hers. When she thinks of Robb, it's in sweeping feelings and gestures. Robb, presiding over playtime as children, or the approachable warmth he exuded. Theon remembers specific stories, moments. He remembers Robb showing him how to flip a coin over his knuckles. Robb, saying he didn't want to fight, and Theon thinking _sure, everyone says that when they're surrounded by men with guns._

In the near distance, someone starts to scream.

* * *

Margaery is called upon, the next week, to give a press release. The Baratheons have fucked up, big time, and she does a valiant job of covering their asses. She's been promoted from interim director of public relations and outreach, to _full-time_ director of public relations and outreach. It's a subtle but important distinction, as the previous full-time director has recently been executed outlaw-style by robotic cowboys.

She also has to give a personal statement, since she was in the park when everything went to hell. She explains how she tried to call and warn IT when she first noticed the park was having technical difficulties. The temperature settings crapped out. A bartending host served her the wrong drink. The devil is in the details, right? But no one had looked into it, so sure enough, the hosts somehow overrode their command settings and went full Jurassic Park.

“Explain again why you were in Pyke.” The officer taking her statement says.

Margaery grits her teeth and explains, again, how Sansa wanted to find her dead brother’s old favorite host. The devil isn't in these details. Notes are scribbled.

“And you said this girl was tall? Red hair?” The officer asks.

“Yes.”

“Can you describe when you were separated from your traveling companion?”

“I can.” Margaery says. “I woke up right after the override, when the park alarm went off. I found Sansa, and she was with a non-violent neutral-alignment host. The womanizing one? Theon. I told her we had to go, and she said she wouldn't leave the host behind.”

“Did you explain that the hosts were suddenly displaying aberrant behavior?”

“I sure did.”

More note-scribbling. “I'm sorry. You understand that we have to ask these things. What happened next?”

“I said that we needed to ditch Theon and hide somewhere nearby so that the extraction teams could locate us. She maintained that she wasn't leaving the host. I wasn't sure if her host was going to go murder-bot like the others, so we split up. I hid in the tavern, in a cabinet. For thirty-six goddamn hours.”

“That was very brave of you.” He says, voice completely flat.

“I don't know when the hostile hosts came through, but I could hear them in the tavern. They were talking about chasing someone north. I think it was Sansa that they were talking about.”

“That’s all, I believe. Thank you.” The officer hits the button on the tape recorder. All this technology and they're still using tape recorders.

“Off record, does this mean you haven't found Sansa yet?”

The officer frowns. “We haven't been able to locate her. When the tracking and navigation systems gave out, she was heading towards the north wall, in close proximity to a host. It's possible she's already safely out of the park.”

“Do you think she made it to the extraction point at the northern wall?”

“Unclear. The guest identification database isn't back up yet.”

* * *

Sansa will be safe at the Northern Wall Outpost. Theon says he'll bring her. _Even if I have to die to get you there_, he says. She believes him.


End file.
